After hours
by Angsty Miss
Summary: Casefile. Full cast. ON HIATUS FOR AN INDEFINITE TIME.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own CSI or any of its characters. They belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and Carol Mendelsohn._

_**Rating:** T for now, might be M later._

_**Pairings**: Can't say yet._

_**Spoilers**: Up to season 3. Story is set roughly two weeks after the season 3 finale._

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1.

Man, it had been a long shift. Greg rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn as he crossed the dark, nearly deserted parking lot toward his car. Across the blacktop, he could see Catherine doing the same, walking lethargically—probably every bit as tired as he was. They'd been working for so long, he could hardly remember what shift he was doing—they'd begun graveyard the night before, but it had stretched into day, swing, and graveyard again. And here they were, 2 o'clock in the morning, 28 hours after they'd first come in, no closer to solving the case than before.

The indefatigable Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle were staying on, collecting evidence from who knew what. Greg hardly cared anymore. He was sick of being in the lab for 28 hours straight—as far as he was concerned, Archie could take it from here. He'd just come into his own shift 10 hours ago. Grissom had sent everyone else from graveyard home, figured they deserved it. Nick and Warrick were still in the building though—but Greg and Catherine had fled. He imagined Catherine must be desperate to see her daughter after over a day hours—and he was desperate for his cd's and his bed.

Groggily he beeped off his car alarm and glanced over to Catherine's side to wave goodbye… but she was nowhere to be seen. Stumped, he stopped and looked around, filled with the most unexpected foreboding. _Get a grip, Sanders. It's not like she's been abducted by aliens or anything. She's probably just setting her heel or something._

Still… something was off. He wasn't sure what it was, but he found himself unable to just walk on and leave. Especially when the seconds passed and no blonde coworker appeared. _Maybe I'm so tired I'm just seeing things, _Greg reasoned wearily.

With a sigh, he set off toward the area of the parking lot she _should _have been in, the rhythmical pulsating of his heart growing steadily louder with every step. Her car was still in place, dark and silent—untouched. "Catherine?"

No answer.

_For all you know she's hiding behind one the cars, just waiting to jump out at you and laugh in your face, _Greg's inner paranoia kicked in. But it wasn't like Catherine to play pranks on her coworkers—that would be Nick or Warrick. Maybe even Hodges. And not even _they_ would be in a prankish mood after pulling a triple.

"Catherine?"

The hollow feeling of dread inside him grew stronger and stronger each time he called her name receiving no answer. And it was way too quiet for Vegas anyway—the blaring inferno of light and sound. It made his skin crawl.

The metallic glint of car keys strewn on the pavement caught his eye—and he immediately found himself tripping over a black bulk, half its contents spilling out—Catherine's driving license among them.

_Shit. No way she'd leave her stuff lying here. Something's wrong. Think, Sanders—think fast._

Run after Catherine and he risked getting clobbered. Lab rats didn't carry weapons and he was hardly built to engage in a physical fight. Run back to the lab for backup and if anything happened to her in the meantime…

It only took him an instant to decide. Greg Sanders wasn't one to just stand around and watch if one of his coworkers was in trouble. Frantically hoping his presence alone would scare off the perp whoever it was, he took a deep breath and broke into a run.

All he got was one glimpse—_one _glimpse—of Catherine pinned to the ground before a huge fist smashed into his face, sending him to the asphalt in a cloud of pain. His eyes hadn't even begun to clear before something grabbed him by the collar, throwing him across the car with what seemed almost superhuman strength. The back of his head slammed into the hood and he felt himself passing out—consciousness shutting itself down little by little—blocking out what sounded like a woman's distressed screams in the background.

Next thing he knew, he was being pulled upright by a pair of strong arms and Nick's worried eyes pierced into his own. "Greg, man! You okay? What happened?"

The world was spinning. Greg just barely managed to make out Warrick standing next to Nick, his mouth hanging open in concern.

"Catherine…" he murmured, his tongue thick and sluggish as a drunk's.

"What about Catherine?" Nick began, when Warrick's startled yelp alerted them to her presence.

"Holy shit."


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Afterwards Warrick couldn't remember what it was exactly that set them off. He wasn't even sure he'd actually _seen _anything—it was Nicky who raised the alarm. One minute they were nearly keeling over with exhaustion, the next, they were sprinting across the parking lot for all they were worth.

"Freeze!" Nick shouted at the top of his lungs, brandishing his weapon.

But the perps had scampered off into the shadows before they even got a whiff of them. There were two of them—huge, bulking bastards. And that was as far as Warrick got in his observation of them.

Greg's limp body was just about to roll off the hood when Nick caught up to him, hauling him to his feet before Warrick could stop him. "Greg, man! You okay? What happened?"

Warrick winced. Nick was his best friend and his heart was in the right place—but you weren't supposed to move an assault victim till you were sure there were no neck injuries. And the way this poor kid looked, a neck brace was the least he was going to need. One eye was already swollen shut and his head lolled around like he was barely conscious. No way he was up to answering questions.

"Put him down," he'd been about to say, when Greg surprised him by opening his mouth and slurring, "Catherine…"

"What about—?"

And then Warrick saw her—a pale figure crumpled about two feet from the car. From _her _car. "Holy shit."

He was at her side in two seconds flat, heart threatening to explode. Unwanted images of a long ago dead Holly Gribbs flared through his mind—but bad as the whole Holly Gribbs situation had been, this was much worse. Holly Gribbs was a rookie—sweet, innocent, someone he was supposed to protect… but he didn't _know _her. Catherine was his friend. She'd saved his ass more times than he cared to remember. She had a _kid_, for God's sake. A nine-year-old who had just lost her father a few months back. She couldn't afford to lose anyone else.

_Fuck it, Cath—don't do this to me. Not this, not you, _his subconscious begged, fingers fumbling for a pulse. Shoes gone, clothes torn, face smeared with blood—the only recognizable thing about her were the strawberry blonde tendrils spread on the ground.

"She shot?" Nick's panicked voice sprang up at his side.

"I dunno, man. There's so much blood." At least she was breathing on her own. Realizing Nick had pulled out his cell phone and was calling for help, he ripped off his jacket and threw it over her, not caring if evidence got destroyed. Damned if he was leaving her there, vulnerable and exposed like some faceless victim for the world to see. She was Catherine Willows, fellow CSI and partner—she deserved some dignity, goddamn it.

Sirens wailing in the background,Warrick suddenly found himself so angry he threw a punch at the nearest lamp post and spit out every curse he could think of. This was no way for their 28-hour shift to end. Those bastards were going to pay for what they'd done to her and Greg.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to all you lovely souls who reviewed—especially LEMONJELLY for her support and for promoting this story on her very own fic "Zwischenzug". Not many people would do that. 

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3.

The red and blue glare of the ambulance lights sliced through Grissom's brain like a knife. He could feel a migraine coming on like he hadn't had in years—a simmering volcano getting ready to blow. Funny how all those hours without rest hadn't taken their toll till now—he could barely keep from wincing as he charged down the parking lot with a worried Sara Sidle in tow. Nick's clipped words over the phone, "Get down here _now. _Greg and Catherine are hurt," were the last thing he'd been expecting—and by far one of the worst case scenarios he could imagine.

"What happened?" he demanded, catching up to Nick just in time to see an unconscious Greg being loaded into the ambulance. The throbbing behind his eyes went up several notches.

"I dunno." Nick ran a tense hand through his crew cut, eyes still dark with shock. "We came out of the building and some guy was smacking Greg around—slamming him into the hood of the car. We got here as soon as we could, but—"

"Where's Catherine?"

"Her ambulance just drove out to Desert Palm. Warrick's with her."

Even through his monster headache, Grissom realized Nick was getting ready to hop into the ambulance after Greg and made a flash decision. He'd thrown a crime lab vest on before leaving the building—and he knew Sara had done the same. Greg and Catherine's plight had turned this place into a crime scene like any other, and as such, it had to be cordoned off and processed with speed and care.

Modesty aside, he knew no one was better qualified to do that than himself. But he was their _supervisor. _There would be next of kin to contact—medical decisions to make, formal explanations to give. He couldn't just stay here collecting evidence, useful as it might be—not while they were at the hospital, going through God only knew what. No matter what bureaucratic crap might ensue from all this—no matter how much Nick resented him for making him stay, he knew _his_ place was at Desert Palm. With them.

"Nick, wait." Shouldering off his vest, he handed it over to the younger CSI, who looked astonished and ready to protest. "You know this crime scene better than anyone. Stay here with Sara and process it," he went on, firmly. "Let _me _ride with Greg. Please."

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Nick's spirits were laden as he watched the last of the blue and red lights fade off into the distance. He would have preferred going with them—felt he deserved it, after all, he'd been there from the start, seen it all take place.

But Grissom was right. He was the boss—he _had _to be there. And Nick _did _know the crime scene better than anyone. He remembered where Greg's head had crashed into the hood, where the thugs had stepped around and probably left footprints. Where most of the evidence from Catherine's attack would be… in the form of blood, hair, fibers… and hopefully no other bodily fluids.

Bodily fluids… son of a bitch… 

A warm hand caught hold of his arm and he turned around, almost taken aback by Sara's presence. It wasn't that he'd forgotten she was there—his head was just so full of dark thoughts, her sympathy seemed incongruent.

"Guess we better get on with it."

His heart went out to her. She was probably every bit as worried as he was—maybe even more—yet she still managed to maintain a professional demeanor. There was even a hint of a smile on her lips. "Guess we should." _Thanks for snapping me out of it._

Nick found it impossible to start with the blood spatter next to Catherine's car. He could barely look at it. Better start with something simpler… like dusting the hood for prints. That was nice and mechanical, might help take his mind off things. Dust, dust, dust—lift, lift, lift—lots of smudges, some whole prints, some fibers. One long dark hair stuck under the windshield wiper. Evidently not Catherine's or Greg's. Any of the thugs have long dark hair? He hadn't got a good enough look at them to remember…

"Hey, Nick! Found something," Sara called from a few feet over.

It was nothing but a blotchy old matchbook, half used up. For all Nick knew, it might have been lying there for days. But the blurry name caught his eye—_RAMPART_.

"One of Sam Braun's casinos," he murmured. _Coincidence?_


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Grissom's limbs were heavy, as if they were made of lead. His whole body felt bolted to the seat in the waiting room, melting into its plastic grayness, to the point he wasn't sure he'd be able to disentangle himself long enough to get up. Could be some strange side effect of the Sumatriptan and NSAID he'd been forced to take when the migraine became intolerable. Or it could just be plain wooziness from lack of sleep and low blood sugar. When was the last time he'd had something to eat anyway? Details escaped him. The whole day was nothing but an endless nightmare of evidence and microscopes. Strange how their latest case, something that had seemed so crucial only a few hours before, had now taken bottommost place in his mind.

When the ambulance first came in, they'd wheeled Greg away from him—"_Glasgow 8_," the paramedic had shouted to the nurses that came to greet them—"_head injury_". He'd been snapped up by a neurosurgeon and taken for a CT almost before Grissom could relay his name. That's when he noticed his migraine was getting bad. The world had become a dizzying mass of voices and lights—he could barely see straight long enough to find a seat.

Warrick was already there, hands wringing, the expression on his face impenetrable. Concern masked it for a second when his eyes fell on Grissom. "Griss, you okay? Need some water for that?"

Once the pills had been gulped down and he'd rested his eyes for a few wobbly moments, Grissom finally felt sane enough to talk. "How's Catherine?"

Warrick bit his lip and turned away, anger and frustration covering his features. "Doctor's in there with her—kicked me out. Looks bad."

"Bad how?"

The short pause caught Grissom's attention. He hated short pauses.

"Like sexual assault bad."

It took a while for the words to sink in and for him to recognize the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was no longer migraine-related. He wasn't sure he could deal with Catherine injured. Especially like that. The scenario of her being _that _kind of victim had never crossed his mind. She'd always appeared so strong, so confident—even after discovering Sam Braun was her father, even when they'd found her ex-husband lying dead in a ditch. Over the last fifteen years, she'd always been his sidekick, his friend, his equal. The one who fought his political battles for him—the single person he could count on to whoop his ass when it was needed. She'd been at this very same hospital only a few weeks ago, their roles reversed—to wish him good luck on his _own _surgery. How was he supposed to explain to her little girl she'd been hurt under his very nose? In the PD parking lot, of all places?

_I can't do this by myself, _he realized in growing desperation. _I'm good with bugs, not people. I don't even know what to say._

All these years it had always been Catherine doing the mothering. And now she couldn't anymore.

"Shit," muttered Warrick, as if he'd read his mind. Leaning his forehead on his palms, he looked tense enough to explode. "How long are these damn doctors gonna take? I wanna know what I need to tell their folks when I call them."

_Right. Have to call the relatives. _"Not your job, Warrick."

His hand had just lingered reluctantly toward his phone to that purpose when a disheveled-looking doctor in a half-open coat appeared. "Good night," he said, sounding every bit as drained as he looked. It wasn't three o'clock in the morning for nothing. "I'm Dr. Wilkins. Are you Miss Catherine Willows' next of kin?"

"I'm her supervisor," Grissom spoke up, the uncanny languor gone as suddenly as it had come. "Gil Grissom. I'll be notifying her next of kin." Almost afraid to ask, he went on, "How is she?"

Dr. Wilkins jiggled his head as if to shake off the cobwebs—a disconcerting move. "At first glance, nothing seems to be broken except her nose. She sustained extensive soft tissue damage though, so we'll still need to take some x-rays of her ribs and a full head and face CT. So far the concussion seems a mild one—there's no focalization and her vitals are stable. Should wake up any minute."

At his side, Warrick slumped back in relief and Grissom's heart almost stopped with the same. _Thank God. _At least he'd have something positive to report to Lily Flynn when he called her.

His hand crept toward the phone again. But what the hell was the doctor still doing there, gaping at him?

"Mr. Grissom," Dr. Wilkins said awkwardly, after one of those pauses he hated so much. "Can I have a word with you in private?"

Fists clenched helplessly, Grissom had to force himself to follow him. His gut feeling told him he really _really_ didn't want to hear this.

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Poor Nicky was really taking it hard.

It barely showed, but Sara could tell. You didn't work with a person for three years and not notice the subtle mood changes that came with stress. They'd been pretty much through thick and thin together—through his awkward involvement with Kristy, the prostitute; his fight over seniority with Warrick, the whole terrifying Nigel Crane ordeal. She'd been the butt of his jokes enough times to know where she stood with him. Too bad she still hadn't learned how to comfort him.

Truth was, she wasn't feeling so hot herself. She'd been tired and cranky long before the parking lot incident—now she was just plain upset. Poor Greg—he didn't deserve this. It had merely been a couple of months since the lab explosion had already landed him in the hospital once. And now he was there _again_?

That Greg had a crush on her was public knowledge. And while Sara didn't exactly return his affection in the same way, she _did _care for him and the idea of him being hurt made her feel oddly suffocated. She had no idea what had happened, but she'd be willing to bet Greg had nothing to do with it. He rarely ever did. Like last time, he'd probably just been an innocent bystander.

"Sara."

Archie's voice startled her. She was so used to hearing Greg in DNA. It still didn't compute he wasn't around. "Yeah?"

"That hair Nick pulled from the windshield has a skin tag. You got anything for me to run it against?"

"No." Sara's mood deflated like a balloon. It was discouraging just how little they had to go on. A couple of prints, some shoe treads, some blood that had ultimately been traced back to Catherine, that unknown hair, and the Rampart matchbook.

She was loosely aware of Catherine's involvement in the Sam Braun case a few weeks back. Sam Braun, local casino _entrepreneur_ and alleged mobster, had been charged with the murder of a showgirl. Unfortunately all evidence related to the case was on the verge of being declared tainted because Catherine had turned out to be biologically related. His _daughter, _no less. How that came about, Sara had no idea. But it was a fact, and would probably cost them the case.

Under those circumstances, she didn't really see why Sam Braun should send his thugs out to hurt Catherine. But Nick was all caught up with the idea. He'd been on Jacqui's back worse than a leech, getting her to compare the prints on that matchbook to Sam Braun and his "associates".

Just as she happened to be gazing at it, AFIS came suddenly to a stop—the magical words flashing out: MATCH FOUND.

"Whoa," Jacqui breathed, staring at the screen. "I'll be damned."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Sorry for the mean cliffy trick. I needed some time to figure out what was supposed to come next. You're all wonderful and you didn't deserve that—I know. I'd say I won't try to make a habit of it, but sometimes the cliffy just fits. Thanks for putting up with it.**_

_**Also… I just watched the season 6 finale rerun and I'm more depressed than ever over the patent GSR. There's just no turning back now is there. Some mysteries should remain mysteries.**_

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5.

"But it makes no sense!"

Nick's pitch had gone way up in exasperation—he was practically yelling. Sara attempted, unsuccessfully, to calm him down. "It's just evidence, Nick."

She'd never seen him this worked up over something. Especially something objective—like plain unadulterated physical evidence. Anyone would think the prints were purposely trying to trick him.

"But it makes no sense," he insisted, flinging his pen down so hard it bounced halfway across the room. "I _saw _them, Sara. I _saw _who was hitting Greg—they were huge. And they were men. There's just no way one of them was this… eighteen-year-old hooker."

He'd been carrying on ever since Jacqui's search matched up the prints to Samantha Ritter—a scrawny kid brought in on soliciting charges a few days back. Nick and Sara had lifted some white substance off her clothes presuming it was cocaine—turned out to be baby powder. She'd badmouthed half the department and their mommies on her way out—and she'd keyed Nick's car while she was at it. To say he'd been pissed as hell would be the understatement of the century.

"Maybe it's a coincidence," she suggested. "Maybe she keyed _several _cars that day—not just yours. And maybe Greg's real attackers were wearing gloves."

Nick glowered down at her as if she were a bug. Even knowing the strain he was in, Sara felt her patience wearing thin. Sure her explanation was a little lame, but she was just as wiped out as he was—he had no business being so damn rude. "Oh, c'mon, Sara! You know prints don't last that long. Plus Catherine wasn't even here that day. She was out with Warrick—that 419 over in Henderson. 'Member?"

Well… that was true at least. Catherine _hadn't _been here that day—and neither had her car. So there was no way Samantha Ritter's prints could have got on that hood unless she'd been in the parking lot since then. _Damnit, Catherine, _she groused, irrationally directing her aggravation at someone she knew didn't deserve it. _Why's everything gotta be so fucking complicated with you?_

"She was a brunette as I recall," Jacqui added briefly. "If you get a DNA sample, maybe Arch can match it up to that hair. Prints on the matchbook are hers too. Shoe tread isn't. Not unless she's got monstrous big feet. It's a size 10. And not quite the stiletto heel."

"We really should be questioning her," Sara sighed, not wanting to hear anymore of Nick's griping or absurd theories on how Ritter could be connected to Sam Braun. The extent of his obsession with that guy was just…

"Oh no, you don't."

Great. Just what she needed to make a rotten shift _more _rotten. Conrad Ecklie—supervisor from days.

"What's it got to do with you?" she demanded cagily.

For once Ecklie wasn't sneering. Didn't mean she had to trust him though. He wasn't _their _supervisor—even if technically they _were _on his shift. "There's no way either of you's questioning anyone tonight. The only place you're going is home—to bed."

"Now, look here—" Nick began, but got cut off short—something Sara felt shamelessly relieved at. Mad as Ecklie's butting in made her, it couldn't be worse than Nick's traumatized irrationality or her own dazed drowsiness.

"No buts, Nick. You've just pulled a triple. This case isn't going to get solved any faster by you two staying here and butting heads instead of analyzing the evidence. Let swing handle it."

Part of Sara longed to stay and argue, but the rest of her knew she'd never make it. Her head felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it—her eyes nearly shutting on their own accord. And anyway, there were more important matters at hand.

"Let's just go, Nick," she whispered, grabbing his sleeve on her way to the locker room and doing her best to ignore the enraged '_WHAT THE—' _look on his face. "We can visit Catherine and Greg."


	6. Chapter 6

_**Thanks for the reviews, everyone. I know I've taken insanely long to update, my initial intention was to make this chapter extra long to make up for it, but life rendered it impossible. Lectures, seminars, a new apartment and family stuff got in the way. I have the next chapter all thought out and will try to update ASAHP.**_

6.

Warrick's eyes were gritty as he bent over the glass partition separating him from Greg. His breath blew steamy clouds across its surface, smudging out the gloomy image of the prone lab tech. Poor kid looked so small and helpless. Hard to believe it was the same quirky Greg who blasted their eardrums out of existence with punk music every single day—same guy who stuttered nervously around Grissom like some anxious crush-ridden teenybopper. His face was deathly pale and his one visible eye ringed with black, the other swathed in a white bandage volcano like some creature out of Star Trek.

"Hey, man." Nick's flat greeting brought him to—he'd been dozing with his head against the pane. Glancing up, he couldn't claim to be taken aback by Nick and Sara's scruffy, heavy-eyed appearance. He sure didn't look any better.

"Hey," –willing himself to alertness. "What's up?"

Nick's voice was tinged with bitterness. "Ecklie kicked us off the case."

"_What?"_ Okay—wide awake, wide awake now.

"No, he didn't." Sara's sick-to-death air clearly indicated this wasn't their first time around on this discussion. "He just told us to take a hike till tomorrow. Swing's taking over for now."

"Where's Grissom?"

Nick's Sidle tolerance was down to zero—that much was obvious even through Warrick's half passed-out stupor. Surprising? Not really. They'd been lumped together way too long and under circumstances distressing enough to set Boy Scouts at each others' throats. And Sara _did _tend to develop a 'wee bit' of an attitude when she was tired. Mildly put.

"Signing off Greg and Catherine's stuff so someone from PD can take them back to the lab." He sighed. "Clothes, swabs, fingernail scrapings… Catherine's SAE kit."

Silence.

Sara's jaw hardened as she glanced away. "…crap."

"Yeah."

No one said anything for the next couple of minutes, staring at the oblivious Greg through the window in a reverent sort of hush. Warrick felt the scene growing fuzzy and suddenly found himself jarred awake—he'd been sound asleep on his feet. Again.

"How's he doing?" Sara's puckered eyebrows suggested she'd been asking for a while. Warrick struggled to concentrate on what she was saying. _Get it together, Brown. Focus._

"CT came back okay—no intracraneal bleeding. He was even awake for a while but the nurses were afraid he'd get agitated and make things worse. So they sedated him." At the others' blank expressions, he explained, "Blow-out fracture to the left orbit. Laugh, cough, blow his nose and his eyeball gets enucleated. Had to find _some_ way to keep him quiet. He's getting surgery in the morning."

"Anything we can do?" Nick's tone had mellowed _a lot. _There was hardly a hint of his initial bad mood left.

"Don't think so. Griss wants us to go home. Families are coming and he'll wanna talk to them."

Nick and Sara seemed anything but thrilled. Still… pure logic was a hard thing to refute. Unless they got _some _shuteye, none of them would be worth a damn in the morning. And they'd need to be lucid by then.

Nick was the first to break. "Fine. C'mon, I'll drive you home."

As they crept out to the hospital parking lot, a familiar smell assaulted Warrick's nostrils. At first he was way too drained to make sense out of it, but when his braincells connected, he realized it was a pipe. Walnut-scented pipe tobacco, to be exact—wafting out in huge aromatic waves from some unknown car's half-opened window.

_Shit. I know I've smelled this before… but where?_

For a fragrance designed to comfort and relax, it sure had a strange effect on his system—sending it into full-on investigative mode. He hadn't even noticed he'd lingered behind till Sara came back for him and steered him into Nick's car.

"What's the matter?" she wanted to know, eyelids half-mast.

He really couldn't say.


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

Conrad Ecklie sighed as he stooped over the evidence table, glaring at the bits and pieces left by graveyard. There were few things in this world he liked less than being up at this ungodly hour, poking through someone else's cluttered, half-finished case. _Especially _Grissom's. If the victims hadn't been fellow CSI's, he never would've put up with it.

His contempt for Gil Grissom, night shift supervisor, was no mystery to anyone. The two had been at odds since the day they met. The guy was just too damn _weird. _He had absolutely no clue of how to behave in a political setting—it usually took Ecklie _days _to smooth over his fuck-ups with the Sheriff. _And now, to top it off, I gotta wrap up his cases too._

Catherine and Greg, however, were an entirely different matter. He was fairly neutral about the lab rat, never having frequented him much, but he kind of liked Catherine. She had a spark and an ambitious streak Grissom was totally lacking. Plus, it was a matter of principle. Their attack had been unprecedented and undeserved—the department _owed _them justice. And he, Conrad Ecklie, was just the person to get it for them. Grissom or no Grissom.

Too bad things weren't working out so well. No one could find the little crack whore whose prints were all over the Rampart matchbook and Catherine's car—she'd dropped off the face of the Earth. And aside from ruling out everyone in the department, they were no closer to figuring out whose footprints had been lifted off the crime scene. He could only hope something new would turn up in the victims' clothes, which he'd passed over to Trace.

"Boss," one of his men piped up, poking his head through the door. "Can you get over here for a sec?"

"What could you _possibly_ want," Ecklie growsed irritably, sick of looking at the useless evidence but still not wanting to leave it empty-handed. He sauntered over to where the other CSI's were, clustered in a small, solemn-looking group. _What the hell's going on here?_

"We may have an eyewitness," one of them said. "There's a guy in interrogation who says he saw the whole thing take place. And that, I quote, 'someone on the inside' was part of it."

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She was having the most beautiful dream. All golden light and sparkling sand with the sea rippling beyond. Her ears rang with Lindsey's laughter—not Lindsey as she was now, but little Lindsey, innocent Lindsey, before life made her sullen and rebellious. Eddie was there too—playing the model daddy for a change. Lean and muscular, handsome and unbearded—the good old days.

Then her eyes fluttered open and the dream was shattered.

First thing Catherine grew aware of was _the pang. _Something she still wasn't used to, even after all these months—the familiar stab of pain that came each morning with the bleak realization Eddie was gone. Forever. Not like when she first left him—and God knew he deserved it. He could be a real son of a bitch, true—but he was Lindsey's father, and she _had _loved him once. Her heart broke into little pieces every time it dawned on her he really wasn't coming back this time.

The second thing she was aware of, once her eyes shifted into focus, was that she had no idea where she was. That light fixture on the ceiling—it sure as hell wasn't hers. She wouldn't be caught dead with something that ugly hanging around the house. And what was it with the bleached white walls and that insufferable beeping sound?

That's when she noticed the third element—rather, it noticed _her, _slamming into her with all the dead weight of a battering ram the second she attempted to sit up. Pain. Searing pain. Pounding inside her head, plunging into her nose, digging into her ribs. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Hey," someone said at her side—a well-known voice. The single thing she recognized amid all this confusion.

As soon as her eyes met the comforting blue of Gil Grissom's, everything fell into place. The sinking reality of it made her groan. _Great. I've put myself in the hospital. No way Gil would be sitting at my bedside with that panicky look on his face if I hadn't._

Her mind flew a thousand miles an hour for a reason—what the hell had she done the day before? Had she been shot? Hit by a car? Was Lindsey okay? Where _was _she? And what freakin' day was it anyway?

Every question drew a blank. Her memory had been wiped clean like a hard drive.

"Hey." She ventured a smile, but something on her nose seemed to be blocking it—came out more like a grimace. "What happened?"

This room was definitely a hospital's. Not only were there more ugly light fixtures in sight, but the beeping sound turned out to be a heart rate monitor and there was an IV dangling from her arm. With a little effort she managed to make out '_Ketoprofen' _ on the bag.

_Painkillers. Huh. Maybe I should be asking for something stronger._

"You and Greg were assaulted in the parking lot," Gil explained. No mincing words, that was for sure—straight-to-the-point Grissom, one thing you could always count on. "Do you remember anything?"

To his defense, Catherine had to acknowledge he looked disturbed. Fearful, even. It was touching in a way, and would've tempted her to make a wise-crack—"_Gee, Gil, I didn't know you cared_"—if this whole memory loss business weren't so disconcerting.

"No," she admitted, shielding her sore eyes from the too bright overhead light. "I'm… not even sure what day it is. Is Lindsey okay? Greg?"

"Lindsey's fine. She's in the waiting room with your mom—they just got here." Brief hesitation. Catherine could almost hear the wheels turning in Grissom's brain—_what to tell? What not to tell?_ "Greg was injured, but not critically. You were both pretty lucky, all things considered."

Catherine's gaze flashed to the window—it was dark. She envisioned Lindsey dragged out of bed in the pre-dawn chill by an overly anxious grandmother. To the hospital, of all places. _Poor baby._

"What time is it anyway? I don't remember a damn thing."

"Almost six. You were attacked at about two. We'd just finished a triple."

Oh, yeah. The Campbell case. Strangled woman in a tub. Too many suspects—none of them convincing. No real motives. Frustrating case—they just couldn't seem to let go. For the first time Catherine found herself zeroing in on Gil, the extent of the bags under his eyes causing a pitiable impression. _This poor guy hasn't slept in days._

"Gil…"

"Warrick and Nicky found you. They got a glimpse of the perps but not enough for a visual ID." Grissom's words tumbled over each other in an uncharacteristic way. It was like he'd either say what he had to say or burst in the process. "We don't have them in custody yet—don't know who they are. But we'll find them."

"It's o—"

"I gave consent to an SAE kit." It came out curt and awkward, almost guilty—like a long-suppressed secret. "Warrick said your clothes were a mess and the doctor found bruising…"

"Oh."

All of a sudden the so-called attack had taken a new turn—one she'd rather not think about. Slowly, her body began making a mental assessment of its injuries. Toes moved, ankles moved, knees flexed—so far so good. From the knees up, however, everything hurt so damn much she really couldn't tell where one lesion ended and the other began.

_Great. Just great. I'm gonna have to ask._

Could the night possibly get any worse?

"Ecklie just called. It's negative," Grissom replied, before she had a chance to. "No semen, no spermicide. You're okay, Cath."


	8. Chapter 8

_**I don't really have words to excuse my delay. Let's just say a whole bunch of exams and writer's block had something to do with it. I'm really sorry for leaving you all in the lurch like this, and I promise to update more often from now on. Thanks for taking the time to read this and reviewing!**_

8.

Jim Brass knew he wasn't blessed with the sweetest temper in the world. In fact, it had been voted among the worst… department-wise, at least. But now, weaving through the unfriendly early morning wads of traffic toward Headquarters, he felt he was reaching an all new level of rage.

Damn them all—those "#". The urban dictionary didn't have enough words to describe his fury. Both Catherine and Greg attacked and _no one _thought of telling him? Not _one _fucking person?Like he wasn't even part of their team? _Shit, you take one fucking night off for once in your life and it's like you were never there and you're never coming back._

He hadn't had a night off in ages. And probably spending it in a parked car with a styrofoam-ful of bad coffee in one of the trashiest parts of town wasn't the best way to go about improving his temper. He'd just felt _the urge_—the urge to check up on Ellie. Hadn't seen her in months. Her less-than-enviable lifestyle was old news—snorting up, turning tricks. He was past trying to talk her out of it. It was just about _seeing _her right now. Make sure she wasn't lying OD'd in some alley or getting beaten black and blue by some abusive joe.

Outwardly, she appeared fine. Healthy even—or as healthy as anyone could look when hooking for a living. Her wardrobe left much to be desired—then again, hadn't it always? At least she seemed well-fed and relatively happy. And her teeth were all in place.

Brass had sat there for hours, contemplating her. Watching her flag down car after car till finally one of them pulled over and took her. Guzzling down the last of the hideous coffee, he heroically resisted the urge to pull out his gun and shoot the bastard. _What's the point anyway. She'll just find another one to bang._

Funny how even after all these years of estrangement, whenever he looked at her, he didn't see a half-dressed, cheap little skank. He saw the little girl with the golden ringlets he'd rocked to sleep at night. So what if she wasn't his biological daughter. He'd _raised _her. He loved her.

Too bad she didn't share his feelings.

He'd been about to crawl back home for a few hours of hard-earned sleep when his cell beeped to life. Lo and behold the toady Conrad Ecklie—requesting his august presence at the interrogation of a witness.

Brass wasn't really in the most patient of moods. "Did you somehow forget it's my night off?"

Ecklie hadn't forgotten—God forbid—but none of the other detectives happened to be available. "And where exactly are they?" Brass barked.

The "incidents" were mentioned almost as an afterthought.

"Mother fucker." Brass swore under his breath, stepping on the gas and making a screeching right at the nearest exit. "Yeah. I'll be right there."

Ecklie was already in interrogation room 1 by the time he got there. The half-light cast eerie shadows all over his angular face, making him look even more undead than usual. His witness was a sleazy kid in some colorful sort of uniform—fast food probably.

"Look, man, I already told you," he was whining, all fidgety impatience. "I didn't even hafta come in here and tell you in the first place. I only did it to help."

"Well, why don't you get even more helpful and run it by me again."

"Man, you don't understand. I _have _to lock up. Place opens at six o'clock. If my boss gets here before I've had a chance to close up, he'll have my butt on a stick." Little pisser was squirming fit to wake the dead and wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. Damn cokeheads.

"We'll take that chance," Brass broke in, pushing his way inside unceremoniously. Ecklie gave him a brief nod of recognition. Brass returned the favor by ignoring the impulse to twist his neck. "Put me up to date, would ya?"

The kid glanced from him to Ecklie, and back to him again. Apparently deciding they were serious, he sagged back into his seat and resignedly began. "It was about two-thirty—closing up time. And these two guys came in. They went—"

"What did they look like?" Brass interrupted.

"Big."

Brass rolled his eyes. "Care to be a little more descriptive? Hair color? Clothes? Anything distinctive about them?"

He was sorry almost as soon as he'd said it. The kid didn't look like he even knew what distinctive _meant_.

"They kinda reminded me of the WWF dudes. You know—big. And tough. Dark clothes. Long hair."

"They look like casino bouncers?"

"Maybe."

"Ever seen them before?"

"Don't think so. Nope."

"And then what happened?"

"They bought some stuff. Cigarrettes and shit. Then they walked across the street and went into the PD parking lot. I figured they were just cutting through."

When the lull grew too long, Ecklie prompted him. "Go on."

"Someone came out of the building and met them halfway."

At this point, Brass shot a surprised look at Ecklie. Someone from the building? From _their _buiding? What the hell was going on? "Can you describe this person?"

"Nah. I couldn't see too well—too dark. Person was shorter than them though. Fancy dressed. Gray hair… I think. Snuck out when the blonde chick appeared."

_The blonde chick. _Brass felt like smacking him across the head in disgust. _Blonde chick my ass._

"Then what?"

"Blonde chick walked up to her car. One of the dudes grabbed her. She put up some fight. Then the other guy walked up."

"What other guy?" Brass wanted to know.

"Greg," Ecklie put in.

"No—not him," the kid said. "The guy with the spiky hair? He came later. Nah, it was the guy with the gray hair. The one that came out of the building. He was the one who beat the crap out of the spiky guy."

_Gray hair guy. Spiky guy. Blonde chick. Some witness we have, _thought Brass wryly.

On a hunch, he pulled down a picture of the whole department taken a couple of weeks ago and slapped it down before him. "You see 'gray hair guy' here?"

He wasn't really surprised when the kid's finger fell on Grissom.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

Ecklie could hardly believe his ears. For one tiny second he was almost exultant—finally Grissom, self-righteous little bastard, caught in the wrong! But the next second common sense caught up with him like a fist in the gut. _Grissom would die before laying a hand on one of his team._

He practically propelled Brass out into the hall, feelings mixed. Something unexpectedly close to indignation came out when he finally spoke. "What the hell was that? _Grissom?! _You actually believe that?"

Brass smirked furtively up at him. Almost like he didn't think he deserved an explanation. Ecklie felt his anger mounting—sometimes it was like Brass and Grissom and everyone else had their own little special club and the hell with filling him in on the details.

Well, he'd had _enough _of it.

"Jim! I'm in charge of this investigation and I _demand _to know—"

"Of course Grissom didn't do it," Brass cut in irritably. "Ain't it obvious? He was in here the whole time, wasn't he? With the other CSI's and the lab techs?"

Ecklie was slightly taken aback. "Well, yeah, but then why—"

"I was baiting him, obviously. This kid's on _some_body's payroll—way too much of a junkie to think up a story like that all by himself. Lucky for us he made a mess of it. I mean—did he really expect us to just up and believe Grissom was the one who concocted the whole thing 'cause of some shady eyewitness?" Brass's voice was sharp, no nonsense—and his contempt was palpable. "I'm thinking if we leave him in that interrogation room long enough without his fix, he'll spill his guts. So just lock the door and leave him there—no food, no water, nothing. Meanwhile, let's see if there's any truth to what he said and there's more shoe treads or maybe even cigarrette butts with DNA on them. Who knows? Maybe we get lucky."

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Grissom couldn't have been asleep more than an hour when the shrill squeal of his phone jarred him awake. _God, I hate phones. Someone should make a huge funeral pire out of all of them._

Then he recalled the situation and stumbled out of bed, knocking both his glasses and the phone off his night stand before catching the receiver at mid-ring. "Hello?"

His heart was suddenly beating at an unreasonable rate. _It's got to be Greg, _his subconscious flared. His surgery had been scheduled for eight o'clock. Grissom's initial intention had been to sit through it, but weariness had proven stronger. After his talk with Catherine he'd been so wiped out even her little girl had begged him to go home and get some rest. "We'll take care of mommy," she'd promised. Who could refuse an offer like that?

_I should have stayed, _his guilt pressed on. _Make sure they were both okay. Not just Catherine. _

"Gil, I need you to come in."

Brass's voice made his stomach lurch. It was supposed to be his night off. Things were worse than he'd thought.

"What? What? What's wrong?"

Maybe his drowsy mind was imagining things, but the ensuing pause seemed to last a lifetime. "Settle down, Gil. It's not one of ours. It's Samantha Ritter."

_Samantha Ritter. _Name sounded familiar. A spiteful thin face with too much make up framed by a halo of black hair flashed through his mind. That's right—Warrick had mentioned at some point she was being investigated as a suspect. Because of some fingerprints.

"What about her?"

"She's dead. Body just turned up at the Mandalay Bay. Strangled in a bathtub."

* * *

**I'm really sorry this chapter was so short and took so long to write. I can't seem to get the Muse back reasons unbeknownst to me. Since life was becoming so incompatible with fanfic writing, I thought of going on indefinite hiatus--but backed down. Please bear with me, I'll get my butt in gear real soon. Promise.**


	10. Chapter 10

**10.**

"Whoa."

Nick had to admit it. He had no love in his heart for this precocious prostitute who went by the name of Samantha Ritter. Even so, the sight of her wide open eyes, already opaqued by death, made him turn away.

"You okay, Nicky?" Warrick questioned, setting his case down near the sink. His face was still gaunt from lack of sleep, giving him a slightly paranoid air.

"Yeah." Nick swiped at his upper lip and was mildly surprised at finding moisture there. _Getting soft there, Stokes?_ Funny how the taunting voice in his head always sounded a little like Hodges. _You should be ashamed of yourself, big tough CSI like you acting like he's never seen a dead body in his life._

Maybe it wouldn't have hit him so hard if she'd just been a stranger. Not that they were best friends or anything, but… there was something about this girl. About the uncanny pose her body had taken as rigor mortis set in. About the telltale bruises on her neck. About the way he had so thoroughly _hated her _after she'd damaged his car…

"Wow," came David's unnecessary comment, bending low over the body to take her liver temperature. "Talk about dèja vu."

Samantha's head was strewn back, her crudely attractive face fixed into a look of permanent horror. The white of her eyes was sprinkled with petechial hemorrhaging, her lips, under their thick coating of red gunk, were bluish. No contusions on her arms or torso—no defensive wounds.

"So she knew her attacker," Warrick logically concluded. "Probably a 'client'."

"Something doesn't add up, though," Nick couldn't help deliberating. "What the hell is she doing here? She's not five-star hotel material. I mean—look at her." The girl's make-up was overdone and her thin negligee was hardly Victoria's Secret. "She's a lady of the streets, man."

"Hmph. We should still get some fingernail scrapings though. And a vaginal swab," Warrick added, as David lifted Samantha's robe to reveal a lurid pattern of black and blue. The sight of it brought painful recollections to Nick's mind—the similarity between this poor girl's injuries and Catherine's almost making him lose his breakfast.

"_You're all a pack of goddamn assholes," _Samantha's voice rang spitefully in his memory. _"Fuckin' pigs. Someone oughta teach you that just 'cause someone turns tricks it don't mean they're junkie white trash. I got friends in high places. I'm gonna make you pay."_

What if she had? What if she _did _have friends in high places? If she _had _made them pay?

Her prints were on the Rampart matchbook. And on Catherine's car.

Catherine and Greg had been attacked by men looking like casino bouncers.

Someone had paid a neighborhood kid to implicate Grissom. Someone with a lot of money—and influence. A person whose position would easily enable him to order casino bouncers around, someone with a grudge against Catherine—and the lab. Who wouldn't hesitate at using a street whore if she happened to fit into his plans… and wouldn't bat an eyelid at disposing of her the minute she became a liability.

"Nick, man—whatcha thinking?"

Warrick's voice was cautious and slightly uneasy. Nick couldn't really blame him—the way his hands were sweating he probably looked like he'd just seen a ghost.

"No way," Warrick stated, soon as he'd heard his theory. "Listen, I know Sam Braun is dodgy and all… but he's her _father. _No father in the world would send a couple of bouncers to rape his daughter out of revenge. That's just messed up."

"I know," Nick began. "But the evidence—"

"There's _no _evidence to support this, Nick. Nothing connecting Sam Braun to Samantha Ritter. Plus how do you explain she was killed the exact same way as the Campbell woman? You gonna make Sam Braun responsible for her too?"

Nick tried not to take offense at Warrick's tone. He was tired—they were all tired. And frustrated. Not to mention he was making some pretty valid points. They'd all more or less agreed the Campbell murder was a crime of passion—no evident signs of premeditation and everything pointed to it being someone she knew. There were more than enough volatile men around her with motive and means to account for it. Too bad they hadn't been able to single any of them out.

Now this…

This didn't make _any _sense. Here were two crimes—three, if you counted the assault on Greg and Catherine—linked only by Samantha Ritter's prints and a similar MO. Were they imagining things? Was it just some crazy ass coincidence? Or were they actually related?

"Whoa."

The word, coming from Warrick this time, managed to stir Nick out of his obscure speculations. He was leaning over the corpse next to David, the weirdest expression on his face.

"What's up?"

David had flipped the victim over and some strange sort of smell filtered out, pungent and sweet, permeating the room. "What the hell _is _that?"

"Walnut-scented pipe tobacco," Warrick muttered enigmatically. "And I think I just remembered where I smelled this before. Come on—let's hurry up and process this. We gotta get back to the lab."


	11. Chapter 11

**I never intended to take this long. Don't know what's wrong with me—hours just turn into days, and days into weeks… and before I know it, it's been a month, and me with no updates. **

**I know this is really annoying to you readers, so please, let me know. Do you still want me to continue this fic, even knowing I may not be able to do better than this—an update a month?**

**Thanks for your input, whatever it may be.**

* * *

11.

He'd died and gone to Heaven. That was the only explanation Greg Sanders could find for the chocolate-eyed angel standing over his bed, gazing intently down at him. _I could drown in those eyes… _his foggy mind murmured blissfully. One naughty hand shot inadvertently out from under the covers, and his heart skipped several beats when it was met by another.

"Hey, Greg," the Angel spoke, giving his fingers a squeeze. "How are you feeling?"

_Trick question, _his subconscious warned. _Say you're okay and she leaves. Say you're in pain and…_

And what?

He wasn't in pain anyway—not really. There was a beautiful hazy numbness trickling through his veins, giving everything a surreal quality. Somewhere deep down Greg knew he _had _to figure out what this was all about but he couldn't stay conscious long enough to care. Did it even really matter? If it got Sara Sidle giving him her undivided attention for an hour or two, it couldn't be _that _bad.

"Greg."

She was shaking him—forcing him awake when all he wanted was to drift happily off into dreamland again. _No, don't make me stay here, darlin'. Have pity on my poor soul!_

"Greg, can you hear me?"

The Angel sounded upset. Greg's heart went out to her. _I won't be responsible for making a woman cry. _"Loud and clear," he asserted. Or at least, he tried to. Disjointed mumble was actually more like it.

There was something wrong with his left eye—the lids were stuck together or something. Vaguely his other hand crept up to fix it, crashing into some hard plasticky substance. "Ouch!"

As the pain settled into his orbit and cheekbone, Greg found himself suddenly remembering, the torrent of unwanted memories toppling over him like a flash flood—the neverending shift, the darkened parking lot, a coworker who wouldn't wave back. The cast-off purse at his feet, a beefy fist jarring his brains almost into oblivion. The metallic taste of Catherine's car paint as his poor face was ground into it.

"Cath… Catherine…" he sputtered, swiping at the alien thing covering his eye. It wouldn't come off. _What the hell _is_ this shit?_

"Calm down, Greg. Cut it out!" Sara exclaimed, shoving his writhing self back down onto the gurney. "It's okay—she's right here. Catherine's right here."

For a second Greg wondered if he'd imagined the dirty look his precious Angel shot the other person in the room. Because why would Sara ever treat anyone like that? Especially someone in a wheelchair?

_Knock it off, Sanders. Get over it. I know you're on drugs and all—at least, you _must _be, if you're acting like such a moron—but you gotta assess the situation. Scientifically—the way investigators do. Walk yourself through it. C'mon._

The person in front of him was Sara. Brown-haired, brown-eyed… endearingly gap-toothed.

The person beside him was in a wheelchair. She was decidedly female, apparently blonde—late 30s. Someone had done a hell of a number on her face, raccoon eyes, a fat lip, and nonexistent nose being the kindest way to describe it.

And she was talking to him. With startling familiarity.

_Holy shit—that _is _Catherine!_

He considered it wisest to keep his opinion of her appearance to himself. "It's you."

_Brilliant demonstration, Sanders. Dazzle her with your wit again, why dontcha._

"How are you doing?" His eyes would have been rolling if he'd had free use of both of them.

"I'm fine," she replied. And astoundingly enough she really did sound it—even if she didn't look it. "And I got you to thank for it. Or so I'm told."

A warm bubble rose in Greg's chest. "I'm glad." He couldn't help but evoke the last position he'd seen her in—trapped under some huge hulking gorilla—and if any of his actions had helped get her out of there, he was grateful.

"How are _you _doing?"

"Been better," Greg honestly responded, fingering the odd synthetic appendix. He was lucid enough by now to realize it was an eyepatch. "What's wrong with my eye?"

"Fractured orbit," Sara broke in, her voice unusually sharp. "You had surgery a couple of hours ago. You'll be okay. But you really do need to rest though. Come on, Catherine, let's get out of here."

_Wait!_

"Did you find these people? The ones who did this?"

Catherine spun back to him, an expression of hopeful intensity on her mangled face. "You know who they are?"

That's when he realized she knew even less about this than he did. Disappointment was a bitter pill to swallow.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Sara couldn't quell her impatience as she wheeled Catherine back to her own room, just a _tad _more aggressively than was necessary.

Okay—she was pissed.

Greg had been perfectly fine until Catherine decided to flaunt her guilty self into the picture. Why'd she have to insist on being there when he woke up? He was sure to get frantic, what with the drugs and all she'd put him through. _Cool it, _Sara checked herself shortly—_no one's saying Catherine's to blame for this._ Yet somehow she was sure the blonde had _some_thing to do with it. Maybe not deliberately. Catherine had a way of attracting trouble, taking others down with her… just like that time with the lab explosion…

Poor Greg was above suspicion. He never had anything to do with _any_thing. As a lab tech, he wasn't even directly involved in the cases. Yet because of _her—_and who knew _what_ she'd gotten herself into this time—he'd ended up in surgery.

"Watch out," Catherine cried out, her right shoulder just barely missing the doorframe.

"Sorry," Sara meekly apologized, controlling herself.

She'd got a little carried away. It wasn't that she didn't _like _the blonde. She actually kind of admired her in a way. Catherine was smart, and had her own spirited way of solving crime puzzles that was pretty enlightening, and refreshing, to a classic, by-the-book, strictly evidence-based Grissom follower. She just couldn't _understand _her. There was a time when she would've killed to be friends—when she presumed they were. But the woman was forever blowing hot and cold—one day they were chums, the next, Sara might be hanging from the nearest tree for all she cared. When that fuck-up Eddie Willows was murdered and she failed to bring proper closure to the case, Sara was certain she'd lost whatever chance at camaraderie they had. But then Catherine's sympathy had taken her completely by surprise when that whole unsavory Hank Pettigrew affair went down…

Who could ever hope to figure her out?

Plucky little Lindsey Willows, one of the few kids she had ever known and liked, had already come running to claim her mother, and since Sara had to return to Headquarters anyway, she figured she might as well leave them. They'd be better off in each other's company than hers anyway. Hospital settings made her edgy.

Good thing it was a nice day at least, she thought, blinking her sun-blinded way out into the parking lot. She didn't see how any of them would've been able to stay up otherwise. Now, between the sunny day and knowing Greg to be out of danger, she'd be much more focused on the task at hand. All she wanted, in fact, was to be back in her comfortable well-known work environment. If only she could remember where she'd parked the Denali…

_Oh shit._

Her feet came suddenly to a halt.

The car was there—but about a foot shorter than she'd left it, that precious Denali Grissom had never consented to loaning her before. All its tires were slashed and all its windows smashed, a huge pool of shattered glass framing it like a halo. The words _"back off bitch"_ stared out at her from what used to be a gleaming black hood.

_Fuck._


End file.
